


Of demonic self-care and its failings

by SenZen_Travers



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28691889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenZen_Travers/pseuds/SenZen_Travers
Summary: Dante and Vergil are sick. Dante figures this is an opportunity for new and interesting experiences. Vergil just wants to be left alone.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 113





	Of demonic self-care and its failings

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely Orange, who asked for a fic inspired by [two of her hilarious and adorable fanarts](https://twitter.com/HAHjnih80008674/status/1120236735156211712) (to gain access to it, you'll need to send a follow request!): Dante and Vergil doing Unreasonable Things while sick.
> 
> Thank you very much for your kindness, and for spoiling us with your art for so long! <3

One of the blessings of Vergil’s heritage is that he’s never been sick in his life. His inhuman metabolism shrugs off the illnesses of men, while he has never heard about demonic viruses.

While he _had_ never heard about demonic viruses.

“Proves that you can learn something new at any age,” Dante says cheerfully, his voice rough from repeated coughing.

 _Cheerfully_. Vergil feels hot, dizzy, _weak_. He’s buried under the sheets; he almost fainted when he tried to get up. His – _their_ – vulnerability is setting his nerves on edge and Dante seems to treat their current predicament as some sort of _joke_.

“You think it’d make for more interesting fights? Kinda like a handicap –”

“You’re swaying,” Vergil snaps. “You’re not taking missions in that state.”

“But with your help –” Dante suggests in his _I have an excellent idea that I know you’re going to refuse_ tone.

Vergil gnashes his teeth, trying to ignore how it makes his head hurt. Has his brother spent his whole life with this little survival instinct? Is it the fever talking? “Both” is the kindest estimation he can make right now.

“No. Go to sleep. We’re resting and recovering.”

There’s a moment of silence. Vergil closes his eyes and buries his face in his pillow. His body and mind seem to throb with the beat of his heart; he feels like he’s floating, shrouded in the daze of fever. He bought cooling patches at the pharmacy, but he's still far too hot and far too cold in turn. Dante should be just as affected; the protective masks that they’re wearing did little to prevent Vergil’s illness – some obscure demonic flu – from spreading.

Yet Vergil’s brother, as always, seems to feel duty-bound to show undue enthusiasm.

Dante sits down on the mattress and scoots closer. Vergil waits.

“Vergil?”

Vergil doesn’t answer. He knows resistance is futile, but he’ll still try.

“Vergil, even though we’re sick, do you wanna fu–”

“Don’t talk to me, _Dante,_ ” Vergil growls weakly.

“I bet it’d feel different!” His twin argues, and coughs.

Vergil debates the merits of closing the covers over his head. Dante would only take it as an encouragement, though.

“Vergil,” Dante insists. “Don’t ignore me. Maybe it’ll be more intense. Maybe it’ll distract you from the fever!”

“Maybe you’ll cough yourself to death.”

“Admit it, it’d cheer you up if I did.”

Dante’s grin is audible. His hand touches Vergil’s and intertwines their fingers – a casual show of intimacy, one they wouldn’t have imagined even as children.

“Plus,” Dante adds, “Lady said that sweating helped make the fever pass.”

He brings their hands to his lips and kisses each knuckle. Vergil shivers, not just because of the cold.

“You won’t convince me, Dante,” he snaps.

Dante grins.

***

Vergil is no pushover. He’s stabbed or otherwise assaulted Dante more than a number of times when his brother tried his patience.

Yet, Dante occasionally manages to push him in just the right way to avoid triggering his sword arm. That’s something of a wonder: Vergil might be sick, but his current vulnerability just makes him more aggressive. Maybe it’s because Dante seems just as weakened as him, if cheerier; perhaps it’s because of the way he touched Vergil’s hand, and approached him with the art of a fellow half-demon knowing precisely which wrong move will earn him a bite. Vergil lets his twin worm nearer and rolls lazily to give him access. This mere shift in position is enough to make his head swim.

“I won’t move,” he warns Dante.

Dante grins through his mask. His pupils are already blown in his dazed eyes.

“Sexy.”

Vergil snorts. Dante chuckles and snuggles against him, lowering their masks so they can kiss. Vergil gives him a few seconds, opening his lips and meeting his brother's tongue in a slow caress, before he bites him just to establish that he’s not _entirely_ conceding.

“Ow! Wasn’t I good?” Dante protests.

“Not enough.”

It’s always entertaining to give his brother some motivation.

It’s always somewhat dangerous to give his brother some motivation.

A few minutes later, Vergil’s shirt is unbuttoned and Dante’s mouth is sliding down his throat to his torso, licking and kissing vulnerable skin until it feels too tight. Vergil tries his best to keep from squirming, but his twin is all too aware of his weak points; Dante throws him a glance, feverish amusement sparkling in his blue eyes, and teases Vergil’s nipples with teeth and tongue until he gets whimpers in answer.

Vergil knows he’s sensitive – he’s still not used to being touched, much less so with tenderness. His sickness is making it worse; Dante’s hands are burning in a way that is both unbearable and twistedly pleasurable, feeding the shivers which runs through Vergil. His heart seems to beat from his ribs to his skull, too quick – quicker still when Dante starts licking down his abs, following the curves of his muscles and the line of his hips. Anticipation and pleasure are mixing in Vergil's guts, intertwining with the fever.

Someone’s moaning. Vergil needs a moment to realize that it’s _him_. He tries to keep his voice down; he might as well attempt to stop water between his fingers. He wants to find something sharp to say – anything to save face, to deny the pleasure seeping through his restraint – but he’s too sluggish for witty repartees. His mind is a hazy mess of sensations; his brother’s touch leaves trails of fire on his skin, echoes of caresses which feed his growing lust.

He wants more. He needs more. He must have said (moaned) it out loud, because Dante chuckles and slides lower, pulling Vergil’s pants down so he can _finally_ touch him properly – a slow caress of his fingers and then the firm grip of his hand stroking Vergil to full hardness.

Dante was right. Everything _does_ feel more vivid, strangely reverberated by the throb of fever. Vergil is _not_ whining, because Vergil never whines, but he’s – making noises, hips chasing after the pressure of his twin’s warm palm and skillful fingers, each move sending a wave of dizziness through him.

“So, how does it feel?” Dante gloats breathlessly.

Vergil tries to kick him with one heel. Dante blocks it with one arm, but then sways and sprawls over Vergil’s other leg.

“Wow! Guess I’m less sturdy than I thought,” he chuckles.

There are about one hundred quips that Vergil could make about his brother’s careless arrogance. He’s just too dizzy to think of one right now.

“Get back to work,” he snaps weakly.

He’s not begging – he never begs either – but he’s going to tear Dante’s throat off, or faint trying to, if his twin doesn’t _do_ something in the next second.

“You’re so bossy,” Dante whines, wrapping himself around Vergil’s hips like some kind of heavy, sweaty dead weight. “I’m sick too, you know!”

Vergil manages a sluggish slap on the top of the imbecile’s skull. Dante answers with a dramatic “ouch” yet just lies there, useless. Vergil briefly entertains the thought of hitting him again, but he’s feeling too drained to do so. He searches for suitable threats before he remembers the best technique against his brother. How could he forget? The sickness really is getting to him.

Closing his eyes, feeling arousal and dizziness thump with equal strength between his temple, Vergil waits.

As expected, the lack of attention quickly pushes Dante to action.

“Vergil?”

“Mm.”

“Are you ignoring me?”

“Mm.”

Cold fingers slide between Vergil’s legs and he yelps, taken aback. Dante’s fever must have abated while his own has risen; the result is that his brother’s touch feels freezing, almost burning against his oversensitive skin.

Vergil doesn’t need to look at Dante to be aware of his twin's smug satisfaction. He’d kick him if he could be bothered; right now, though, he’s reached the limit of his patience. He tries to stay silent, frustrated by the fact that he’s already panting, but he’s too dazed and weakened to even think about keeping his voice down. Dante unceremoniously wriggles over him and kisses him again – all lips and teeth, enthusiastic and sloppy in a way that betrays his own dizziness. He nibbles and sucks on Vergil’s throat, trying as always to leave marks that will fade in a blink anyway.

Vergil missed the moment his brother reached out for lube, but Dante must have done so; his fingers are slick when they press against Vergil’s entrance. The noise which escapes from Vergil’s lips is closer to a cry than he’d like – the difference in temperature makes the intrusion more vivid, inner muscles trembling and clenching in protest. Dante chuckles and bites his throat.

“You’re tighter than usual, Vergil –”

“Shut up,” Vergil pants.

He might be pinned by his sickness, but he still has enough control that he can force himself to relax and to take Dante more easily; his brother’s cold fingers warm inside him, scissoring him more roughly than usual. Vergil doesn’t mind the pain, but he _does_ mind the way Dante deliberately avoids that spot of pleasure in him, rubbing and pressing inner walls just enough to make them more sensitive. Vergil’s body craves more, moans for more – small breathless gasps and cries which sounds far too close to begging. His head is swimming, but his consciousness clings to every touch – every jolt of sensation, every pang of desire.

“Want more?” Dante asks, because of course he does.

Vergil glares at his brother, trying to find a sharp reply. It’s hard to focus on anything, however, other than the lust running through his veins with feverish intensity. Dante must be feeling the same, or maybe the flu weakened him more than he lets on; he doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t posture further before he takes his fingers out and sheathes his cock deep inside Vergil.

Vergil can’t keep himself from crying out, no more than he can help the way he instinctively sinks his nails in Dante’s shoulder. Pain only eggs his brother on, snapping his hips further in, and Vergil _whines_. Dante’s dick is wider than his fingers – he never prepares Vergil enough, deliberately makes it so the last stretch will be on that edge of painful which they both love. He grabs Vergil’s arms so hard it hurts; Vergil doesn't mind.

“You’re so good, Vergil, you're so tight around my dick –”

He’s babbling. Vergil has no word left to tell him off, only imperious moaning, and thankfully his twin obliges his implicit demands before he really claws at his shoulders. They're sweating abundantly; the fabric of their pajamas clings wetly to their skin.

It feels too different, dizzying, intense. Each shove of Dante’s hips seems to echo in Vergil’s whole body, pleasure and impact wrecking the few shreds of rationality he has left – submerging him in his sensations: the stretch, the pressure, the drag of his brother’s cock rock-hard inside him, Dante’s thrusts and touch and scent and heat and sweat and pants and groans in Vergil’s ears. Two very different fevers are feeding off each other in Vergil's veins, buzzing along overstimulated nerves, shrinking his universe down to the raw ecstasy of their coupling; it’s too intense, too vivid, overwhelming Vergil’s sense until he’s sure that he’s going to faint. He can hear his own cries, incoherent begging mixed in with Dante’s babbling – _don’t you feel extra good, Vergil, your whole body is clinging to me, you’re so hot, I love you so much, Vergil_ –

Vergil’s throat is going raw from crying out, his nerves overloaded by pleasure until he’s shaking, at the edge of blacking out. When he climaxes, orgasm raking through him like a storm, he loses a few seconds of time.

He returns to consciousness with Dante’s weight on top of him. His brother didn’t even pull out before collapsing over him. A flare of irritation pinches Vergil’s lips; he tries to punch his twin but barely manages to raise his arm, the mere move burying him under a new wave of sluggishness. He coughs; the effort his chest makes to rise seems to drain him from an energy he already didn’t have.

He’s…

He’s exhausted.

And very sick.

“ _Dante,_ ” Vergil tries to hiss threateningly.

His voice comes out in a husky whisper. Why isn’t Dante _moving_?

“Dante! Get off me!”

It’s when he hears the deep, regular breathing of his brother that Vergil grasps the horrible truth.

Dante fainted.

The _fool_ spent all his energy fucking him and now he’s out like a light.

How _dare he?_

Vergil tries to shove him off, but he doesn’t have the strength to do more than lightly push his shoulder. Dante, of course, doesn’t react by anything more than a content sight. Even in sleep, his brother finds means to vex him. Vergil attempt to at least squirm away or wriggle him off, but Dante’s spent cock is still buried deep inside him – wet with sweat and slick and semen – and the slightest drag of his twin's dick against overstimulated nerves is sending sparks of exhausted pleasure through Vergil.

“You are a _fool_ and an _imbecile!_ ” Vergil growls weakly at the beast he has the chagrin to call his brother. “I’ll shred you to pieces when I recover!”

Dante doesn’t answer. He’s sleeping contentedly, his breathing peaceful and even through the slight rasp of illness.

_Contentedly._

Vergil tries to pinch his cheek and only manages to caress it.

He will get bloody revenge as soon as he has enough strength to do so.

***

The next morning, Vergil has recovered enough that he can wake Dante up with an (un)loving bite to the nose. All this sweating wasn’t for naught.


End file.
